Rise of a Sith
by TemplarSword
Summary: From the ashes of a past life, Jorreel seeks to make his name among the Sith lords of ages past. As his anger guides him, and his hatred fuels him, he will forge his passions into a weapon of the Emporer. Or die trying.
1. Pain and Anger, Fear and Hatred

_They were coming, the sound of lightsabers igniting filled the hallway. His mother ushered him into a closet, as his father grabbed the blaster from the bed-side table. Kicking open the door to their apartment, the figures in brown cloaks entered, green lightsabers at the ready. His father cried out, firing one, two, three, four shots at the man in front. _

_ The first two were deflected by the energy blade, the third and fourth slamming square into the attackers chest. Falling backwards, the other two were pushed back into the hallway. The boy shuddered in the closet, trying to stay quiet like his mother had told him to. He didn't wish to upset her like he had his father earlier that day, breaking one of their priceless vases. _

_ Blaster fire echoed again, and the sound of energy hitting lightsaber sizzled in the small apartment complex. A cry of pain from a man was heard, as well as the scream of a woman. There was pleading, begging as the sound of heavy boots was heard. They were coming into their home, his home!_

_ A shriek of pain, and the sound of energy through flesh cut through the air, and then all was still. The men extinguished their lightsabers, tromping about the apartment for a time. The young boy was silent, he didn't make a sound, didn't make a fuss, until the door to his apartment was shut, the heavy boots walking down the hallway and fading away. _

_ Pushing open the closet door, the boy crawled out, trying not to trip over the lip of the closet. Standing shakily, he looked around the trashed room, the holo-emitter on the table tipped over. His father lay a few yards away from the closet, blaster still in hand. The smell of burnt flesh invaded the boy's nose, and he soon found his mother. _

_ Walking over to her, he gave her a nudge, trying to restrain his tears. "Mommy," he called out, trying to wake her up. _

_ "Mommy, please get up… We'll be late to go to the show…" He was starting to sob a bit now, tears clouding his eyes. Curling up beside his mother, he moved in close, crying against her side that quickly chilled in the night air._

He was in pain. More pain than he had felt in a long time. Slowly, he reached a hand forward, feeling along his armor. His brain futilely tried to recall what had happened, his lead lolling back against the ground. Then he found it, his hands clenching around the hilt of the lightsaber.

He was impaled on the handle. The Zabrak hissed in agony, as his hand hit the ground, his body arching in pain. He could feel the burns; feel the lack of air reaching his working lung. Through the force, he could feel his lightsaber, too far for him to reach. His attacker was nowhere to be found, but the face of the Twi'lek would be forever burned in his mind.

The sound of heavy boots met his ears, and the chatter of a medical team. He saw Wizard, kneeling in front of him, before the medical team blocked his view, chattering and nattering their almost foreign way of speaking. He heard the terms 'transplant,' 'Kolto,' and 'physio.' Blindly, he reached out, grabbing someone's wrist weakly. The shame hit him, his pride hurting more than his body.

"Don't tell Jaelria… Don't tell Lord Damry… That I failed," he hissed, wondering why the Pureblood's name came even before his master. He yelled, as the lightsaber hilt was pulled free, the crushed portion tearing his skin as it made its way out. He had crushed it, he had finished it.

"Nothings gonna change that, Sledge," murmured the voice, before the Sith slipped back into unconsciousness.

_The boy levitated the cube effortlessly, having practiced the feel of it for hours. Gyrder leaned at the door, the teenager grinning from ear to ear, his brown skin and red hair contrasting so differently on the human. _

_ "Jor," he said, "That is –way- to cool." The Zabrak grinned, pushing some hair out of the way, past the nubs of his growing horns. _

_ "Thanks Gyrder, took me forever to start moving pebbles," he replied, "But now I feel like… I could lift people if I wanted to… With a bit of practice." The boys laughed, Gyrder's brown eyes glinting. Their parents –well, Gyrder's- called to them, inviting them down for dinner. Gyrder called back, as did the boy. _

_ "Hey, I bet you can't move some of the bricks in the basement," jibed the Teen, grinning. The Zabrak pushed off his bed, the cube falling back to the floor. With a snort, the red-skinned boy tromped past the human, laughing as they darted down the stairs, taking them two at a time. With a hurried excuse, they ducked into the dingy basement of the house. _

_ "Ten creds says you can't lift those bricks," said Gyrder, tracing the path across the room with his hand, "Over to beside the heater." The big metal machine hid in the corner of the room, a boon for their family. Not many people in the slums had a heater during this time of the year. _

_ "Easy money," piped up the young Zabrak, grinning devilishly. With a bit of effort, he started moving the bricks, one by one, until they piled up beside the heater. The human watched with a smirk, crossing his arms. _

_ "Not bad, Jor, but how fast can you move them?" The red-skinned boy smirked, lifting up the last brick. _

_ "Just watch," he shot back, the brick speeding across the room._

_ The explosion threw him backwards, the roof collapsing down on the one side. The Zabrak covered his face, ducking into a corner as soon as he could get on his knees. Gyrder was screaming from somewhere, and the boy could see him holding his arm, blown off at the shoulder. _

_ Fire quickly spread into the remains of the house, and the smell of ash and flame filled the Zabrak's nostrils. He couldn't hear anything else beside the flames lapping at the house, and Gyrder's screams of agony. Quickly, the boy covered his ears, leaping out through the hole in the way, past raging fire. _

_ He was angry at himself, angry for Gyrder betting him, angry for this stupid power! And as the flames of the fire leapt at his clothes as he ran…_

_ So did the flames of his anger lap at his heart._

"Up the dosage, quick, he's coming out of it!"

The Sith could feel the machines and IV's keeping him alive, the slice of the knife against his charred skin nothing but a dull pressure. The lights of the operating table blinded him for a moment, as his eyes adjusted. The surgeons cried out, as the medical droids continued their work, only those with sufficient enough of an AI working to up the sedation dosage.

The Zabrak looked down at his chest, his skin torn open, and the last of his bone's being put back together. He paled, and screamed in shock, swatting at the nearest droid. It took three men to hold him down, as he struggled against the workers. He didn't care if he was doing more damage, didn't care if he was making it worse. He wanted out.

He was angry at his weakness, his thoughts of mercy. He wanted to lash out and destroy everything around him, break it all with his bare hands if he could!

But the fight slowly left him, as his limbs numbed. The team was dialing up his sedation, and he tried to resist it. But the dosage was too high, and slowly, he fell back against the operating table.

_ The Acolyte walked through the late halls of the Sith Academy. The last class had returned from the tombs with their lightsabers, having killed for them or reclaiming them from a long forgotten Sith lord. The Zabrak reached back, his adult hands gripping the hilt of his warblade. _

_ He was still angry for the Imperials that had dragged him here years previous, but it was good. His instructors wanted to see that anger, and hatred, and they encouraged it. He had learned to fight quickly, besting most of his class in combat. _

_ They jibed at him, and told him off, but he wouldn't play their games; he wouldn't set into their petty rivalries. He would bide his time and wait. _

_ He heard the activation of the lightsaber, before they leapt onto him. Six or seven of them quickly beating the Zabrak into submission, holding him down against the ground. Their leader, a classmate of his walked out from behind a corner, his friend emerging with a red lightsaber. _

_ "Hey look," he said smugly, "Its some alien freak." The Acolytes laughed, except for the Zabrak. He thrashed against his attackers, trying to free himself. He knew they had no qualms about killing him, and he feared that more than anything else. _

_ "Doesn't look like he has markings though, do he?" The scum holding him down smirked, chuckling. The Acolyte with a lightsaber strode forward, holding it crudely in a that was too small for the wide handle. _

_ "I think we should give em' to him, boss," he lumbered, grinning. With a wave of the leader's hand, the Acolyte set down, pushing the lightsaber against the Zabrak's skin. He shrieked in agony, trying to thrash away as they burned their symbols into his face. Every time they missed, they would start again, and eventually, he lay still._

_ Fearing that they would mess up and start again. _

He opened his eyes, blinking. He was warm, and he found it hard to breathe. Was he dead? After everything, had he died at the hands of a fool and a coward? His heart trembled in fear, before he clamped his jaw around the mask, feeling the breathing tube shoved down his throat.

Clenching a fist, he felt the movement of the almost gel-like liquid, the warm fluid surrounding him. It was hard to breathe, a strange weight on his chest restricting his breathing.

"Shit, he's a live one, ain't he," piped up a female voice, muffled by the tank and the fluid. Looking through the glass, he could make out two murky figures on the other side, what looked like a woman behind someone. Feeling a pinch in his arm, he closed his eyes, grunting. The large dosage of the heavy sedative knocked him like a raging gundark, and he could feel himself slipping away again.

"Go back to sleep, Sledge," muttered a man, and he was surrounded by blackness.

_ The Twi'lek and he danced, lightsabers flashing. The Apprentice fought off against the strange, possibly mad Sith. They clashed blades, the Zabrak`s strength easily overpowering the Twi`lek`s. Pushing him away, they clashed again, and the Juggernaught deactivated his blade in a feint, reactivating it and cutting deeply into the Lord's flesh, forcing him to twist away and trip over an upturned couch._

_ "You'll pay for that," he shrieked, holding the wound. Advancing on him, the Zabrak felt pity for the creature, the madness having long taken over him. It was dishonorable to strike an unarmed opponent, and so, he moved to incapacitate him._

_ With a cry of fear, the Twi'lek brought up his blade in a feeble attempt at a parry, managing to knock away the Zabrak's in more surprise than anything. Rolling to the side, the Apprentice found their positions reversed, with the blade of his attacker pressed against his chest, quickly searing through his heavy armor, flesh, and bone._

_ Reaching out feebly, he grabbed the blade with a hand, his fading strength trying to stop its progress. The Twi'lek grinned over top him, hissing as he pushed the blade through the Zabrak. His hatred for the pale, frail little thing grew, his long born hatred form himself burning in his veins. _

_ With a grip like durasteel, he crushed the lightsaber in his hand, knowing it was too late to stop its progress. He felt the sharp edge of the lightsaber's hilt cut into his charred flesh, and did nothing to stop it as it pushed through. It was pain like he had not felt in a long time._

_ And quickly, blackness consumed him._

The pain medication had worn off sometime ago, and he floated in the tank. His anger, hatred, and pain made him strong, gave him the power to resist his bodily agony. The Force strengthened his will beyond what it ever could have been, and vengeance had sparked in his heart.

"…Alone…" He heard the words of the woman again as she left. And when he could no longer feel her presence, he opened his eyes. Looking around the enclosed glass, he soon realized he was in a kolto tank. Beyond the encasement, he couldn't see much, but deduced he was in some sort of holding facility, possibly the HQ of the 113th.

The Sith Lord… The Twi'lek… He had argued about him interrogating someone… a woman. It must've been the woman that had injured the Captain, Kevrin Aker. He had doled out what was necessary for the information, and he had received the same in return. The breathing in his chest was still restricted, despite the almost weightlessness of the tank.

Clenching a fist, he could feel the sedatives being injected by the automated terminal nearby, feeding into his arm. He slowly slipped into the blackness again, anger festering in his heart.

Hatred breeding thoughts of revenge.


	2. Siri: To Serve

The force lightning licked across his bare skin, eliciting a roar of pain from his throat. It took every ounce of his willpower to keep it away from the durasteel plate across his chest, directly over his hearts. Jorreel writhed on the table, until the assault was finally let up, and he got a breather. The woman standing over top of him frowned deeply.

Siri, his ship's medical staff, dropped her hands, concern lining her face. She was kind enough, caring and sweet. Sadly, she had barely escaped the Sith Academy with her life, but she quickly found herself amongst the Zabrak's crew and enjoyed herself.

"Jorreel," she spoke, her purple eyes rounded with worry, "I can't keep doing this, its killing me." The Sith on the table slammed a fist, anger quickly rising.

"I don't care," he barked, "Again!" Without hesitation, Siri blasted him with another round of Force Lightning, and the Zabrak writhed on the table, keeping the charge off his chest plate. Ever since he had returned late in the night, he had been in the worst mood, grumbling about Sith and 'crazy people.'

"He's going at it again, huh," piped up a voice from the hallway, the female Twi'lek leaning against the doorframe. Clay had joined up with Jorreel long before Siri had, and she didn't even know why he kept her around. She was rude, obnoxious, talkative, but she knew her way around the dirty parts of the Empire, and it helped them all through more than one situation.

Siri nodded at the Rutian Twi'lek, keeping the pressure on Jorreel until he started losing consciousness, where she let up. The small med center smelled of smoke and cooking meat, both bad signs. Clay shook her head, sighing as she pushed off the door. The Zabrak waved Siri away, and she nodded, stepping out into the hallway.

A dark-haired man lay stretched out on the ship's couch, reading his datapad. Known only as Quinn, no one, not even Clay, knew why he was on the ship, though the Sith frequently sought council from him on matters. They would spend long periods of time locked up in the bridge of 'the Overlord,' talking, conversing, and sometimes yelling, before Jorreel would lock himself up in the engine room and work.

"I don't understand it," sighed Siri, plopping down on the couch beside him, "He keeps working and working, and it's going to kill him." Quinn lifted an overly thin brow, his brown eyes focused on the datapad.

"You don't need to," he shot back dispassionately, "He's Sith and we are not… Only he knows why he's doing what he's doing." The Twi'lek glared at him, as did Siri.

"Bantha shit," piped up Clay, "He talks to you more than the rest of us, you know him better." The human nodded as well, pushing Quinn's feet off the couch. He glared at her, before Clay got right in his face, looking scarier than their Master ever would. The man sneered at her, pushing the Twi'lek away by her shoulders.

"I know about as much as you do," he spat, looking between them, "All I know is, he's not happy with what's been happening within the 113th. Getting the short end of the stick and whatnot." Siri threw her hands up in the air in frustration.

"Short end of the stick, we're all getting it," she cried, "We've been here for almost a week since Balmorra. Face it, we're stuck here until he either gets kicked out or something happens." Clay rolled her eyes, and Quinn dusted off his jacket. Snorting, Siri pushed off the couch, walking over to the holocom.

"And this, this whole 'Gyrder' thing, it's pointless! He's not going to find a bounty hunter for a Trandoshan in this entire galaxy!" Quinn shook his head at her as Clay moved towards the engine room, already sick of the conversation.

"Look," he muttered, trying to calm her down, "His business is his business. We're here to serve him, and aid him as best we can. He'll be strong, you've said this yourself." Siri nodded, sighing.

"It's…. frustrating," she replied, "I feel like he's going to kill himself eventually with everything. I can't help but worrying." Quinn nodded, and before he could reply, a voice boomed out from behind them.

"Then stop worrying." Siri spun around, to see the Zabrak's bronze gaze levelled at her. She gulped, her knees feeling weak as she stared into those smoldering eyes. Quinn's grip on her arm tightened, as Jorreel crossed his arms, the light shirt he had on hiding his intense physique. Silently, she wished she was invisible, so she could hide from the anger that was brooding in those eyes.

"Quinn, we have permission to fly to Nar Shadda," spoke the Sith in clipped words, "Get us a landing permit and we'll take off within the week. As for you, Siri…" She trembled lightly, as Quinn did his best to support her weight. She never did well with stress or fear, one of the reasons she had been kicked out of the Academy.

"I want you to watch the readouts from Sergeant Falco's kolto tank," he ordered, "We've got the readout coming through clearly. And I wished to be informed immeadietly, if there's any change." Siri bowed her head as Jorreel moved across the common area, locking himself in his private quarters. Quietly, Siri sighed, pushing off from Quinn.

Her place was to serve, not to question.


End file.
